Evolution
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Five times Aziraphale wasn't the most confident Dom, and the one time it finally clicked. Aziraphale x Crowley


_Warning: NSFW. D/s. Masturbating but no explicit sex. Soft domination._

"Show me." Aziraphale says the words with uncertainty, relays the order with less authority than he'd have liked. He's not unaccustomed to giving commands, though it has been a while. But this one takes the breath straight out of him, leaves his voice with no foundation with which to rely on.

They'd talked this through ad nauseam, discussed their boundaries, their limits, their roles, their responsibilities. This was Aziraphale's gift to his husband, and he was ecstatic about giving it. It's their first time spreading this set of wings, and his are still a little wet.

Not Crowley's. Aziraphale has never seen his demon more sure about anything they've yet to do in the bedroom. Submitting to Aziraphale seems to be a genuine thrill for him. Aziraphale, on the other hand, has been handed this power to execute, but he doesn't know how to wield it.

They'd started with _show me_ – the simple act of Crowley performing for Aziraphale, showing him how much he wants him, how much he wants to make love to him, what he would do for him if Aziraphale consented. It relies on Aziraphale to decide if his performance is good enough, if he'll leave him wanting, or force him to relieve his ache in some other fashion.

A decision of whim. That seems to be right up Aziraphale's alley.

And even though it's meant to put Crowley in the vulnerable position, Aziraphale is the one who feels exposed. His eyes dart away when Crowley unbuttons his slacks, reaches inside, and presents Aziraphale with proof of his desire. Aziraphale feels Crowley grin, its heat burning his skin like a brand, leaving a red wash in its wake.

He feels adolescent and unsure.

He's a figurehead for Crowley's fantasies.

Crowley surely has the charge.

* * *

"Show me."

Actually, on second thought – nope.

Disaster city.

Crash.

Burn.

Leave the wreckage, come back later to bury the dead.

A throat clearing too hard starts a choking cough that's nearly unstoppable.

A bizarre, self-conscious lisp.

Giggling … snickering … then outright laughter.

Safeword.

Then aftercare … of Aziraphale's ego by his way-too-understanding husband.

Azriaphale is trying not to think too hard, but he can't help thinking.

A little renegotiation might be in order.

* * *

"Show me." The words are still foreign to him. Like shoes too small for his feet, the command doesn't fit his mouth yet. He doesn't object to the activities those words invite. He's tempted consenting humans to them with little remorse.

Did he ever picture himself doing them?

Not really, no.

Does he love his husband?

Yes. More than life.

He wanted to give Crowley the fantasy he'd asked him for, so he'd taken to practicing in the mirror when Crowley wasn't around (not an easy feat seeing as, now that they're married, Crowley is a constant fixture). Aziraphale stared at himself for an hour at a time, made tweaks to his stare, his squint, his mouth, his face, his tone. Aside from the unfamiliar grin cramping his cheeks, Aziraphale can barely tell a difference, but there must be some change. Possibly in the strength of his voice. Crowley's smirk remains but it's softer around the edges. And this time, when Aziraphale commands him, he drops slowly to his knees before he undoes his slacks.

* * *

"Show me." Condescension drips from Aziraphale's mouth, drying it so that he constantly rearranges the position of his tongue behind his teeth to keep it from sticking permanently. "And if I like what I see, then maybe, just maybe, I'll let you demonstrate."

"Yes, Master."

Aziraphale's eyes follow the movement of Crowley's hand as it reaches down his body. His demon does it with no resistance, undoing the button and zip to his trousers and shimmying them down his legs; his once sly, unrepentant smirk more submissive as Aziraphale's confidence has bloomed, more at home with taking the wheel. The steps aren't much clearer, but Aziraphale knows better how they fit into the dance. He's not the most comfortable in this position yet, but it's the only one he can see himself in.

He's been a pawn for too long. He has no interest in following orders.

He may one day … like this, in their room, if Crowley asks him to.

But that day isn't today.

* * *

"Show me."

"Yes, Master."

"And …?"

Crowley's hand stops before it begins while he racks his brain to figure out what he forgot. They've been changing bits and pieces here and there, experimenting, finding new and exciting grooves that fit them.

Crowley suddenly remembers, a shadow of his smirky grin resurfacing, but only for a second.

"This one is glad to be of service."

"Very good. Proceed."

Aziraphale has graduated to a new level. He doesn't have a metric, per se, but he feels himself finally getting the hang of this. Instead of focusing solely on what doing this brings to his husband, he's decided to shift focus to the things it does for him. After all, this isn't a one-sided adventure. He's an equal participant in this prelude. That's the way he likes to think of it – in terms of music. He's the conductor, and Crowley the instrument.

And such a beautiful instrument he is.

When they started being intimate with one another, Aziraphale saw their relationship as one of strictly equals. So having Crowley submit, no matter how much he wanted it, didn't sit right with him. He couldn't bear the thought of humiliating Crowley, not even a little. But the more they do this, the farther outside his comfort zone Aziraphale steps, the more he begins to see that they're still equals. That hasn't changed. In their dynamic, as he's read it's called, they may have different roles, but one doesn't take away from the other. Doesn't make it lesser.

Doesn't make it unworthy.

Aziraphale thought he'd never be comfortable seeing his strong, bullheaded demon on his knees. But now, he craves it.

And knowing Crowley craves it, too, means he can exercise his newfound authority without any guilt.

* * *

"Show me." The words slide off Aziraphale's tongue cleaner than his name, the soft curl of his voice making Crowley tremble as if the hand caressing his cock were the angel's own. "Should I keep you standing? Or do I make you kneel?" he asks, circling his demon the same way Crowley has circled him for ages, looking him up and down with a salacious grin.

He's never grinned like this before. It's recent.

But the more he tries it on for size, the better it seems to fit.

And it has _power_.

His first attempts at it, he looked ridiculous. Positively.

He'd thought he was improving, so he tried it out over dinner at The Ritz.

Huge mistake.

Crowley hadn't expected it. He laughed so hard when he saw, assuming Aziraphale's lopsided, toothy grimace was his silent commentary on a plate of poorly prepared pasta primavera and not an attempt to dominate his demon at the dinner table, that he'd shot red wine out his nose. That set Aziraphale's self-esteem plummeting like a baby bird relying on faith and sunshine to fly.

But he didn't let it tank his ego.

He didn't give up.

He practiced alone in the bathroom, in their bedroom, in front of every reflective surface, including the highly polished floors of Crowley's flat, until one day, and without warning, he found Crowley on his knees at his feet, begging his angel to let him serve him.

And Aziraphale had to admit he liked that. He liked that a lot.

"Whatever you want, Master," Crowley says, his knees wobbling with every new stroke. "Whatever pleases you."

"Watching you suffer pleases me." Aziraphale slaps Crowley's hand aside and gives him a single stroke, one that's a little too tight under the head, adding time to this torture. Crowley groans, but that look of Aziraphale's – that powerful look – silences him. "Watching you perform pleases me."

"But I …" Crowley's objection skitters to a halt, his teeth sinking into his lower lip to stop it, but he can't take back those first two words.

Aziraphale stops his circling and stares into his husband's eyes, the blue of his irises heating up, starting to glow. "But … you … what?"

"I …" Crowley swallows, concentrating on keeping his hand moving, keeping his body in check, while he comes up with an answer that'll appease Aziraphale. "I need you, I … I need to have you. I need to be with you, to be in you, I … I …"

"Shhh. Don't speak …" Aziraphale puts a finger over Crowley's mumbling mouth, shaking his head with mock disappointment. He leans in, eyes an almost unholy white as he forces Crowley to continue his stroking, this time while looking into his eyes. "_Show me_."


End file.
